


Sole Survivor

by MeMyselfandAI, MessOfCurls



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Climbing Class, Death, F/M, High School, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Students, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMyselfandAI/pseuds/MeMyselfandAI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MessOfCurls/pseuds/MessOfCurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you had to kill to survive, would you? Even if it was someone you loved?</p>
<p>It was supposed to be their big trip, one last hurrah before graduating: but they were wrong. Now, a group of high school students find themselves as unwilling participants of a sick game, pitted against each other and forced to take up arms in a fight to the death where only one survivor - one winner – remains.</p>
<p>(An Until Dawn ‘Battle Royale’ au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sole Survivor

**Author's Note:**

> To celebrate the one year anniversary of Until Dawn, please enjoy the first chapter of our fic.

It wasn’t his alarm - often snoozed until the last possible moment - that roused Chris from his slumber. Instead, it was the sound of his own breath and murmuring voices close by. Opening his eyes, he swallowed. His throat was dry and a faint metallic taste lingered unpleasantly on his tongue. With a grimace, he lifted his head and realised that he was sitting at a desk. Without his glasses, the world was blurry and indistinct. Sluggish fingers groped around the desk until he found them, but after putting them on, he fared little better. Head swimming, unexplained nausea rendering him weak and woozy, he struggled to focus.

_Mm’I at schoo..?_

The question seemed stupid, even to him. But, as his vision slowly cleared, it didn’t seem quite so idiotic anymore. Upon first glance everything pointed to that possibility. Desks - some occupied by equally groggy-looking classmates, others by the sleeping students still slumped over them - stood in orderly rows, all facing a blank chalkboard at the head of the room. But something was amiss, becoming more apparent with the benefit of prescription lenses. Thin cracks crept along the paintwork behind the sun-bleached academic posters pinned to the walls. The floor was a mess of scuffs and scrapes made by countless shifts of furniture; unpolished and unbuffed for God knows how long. Crude graffiti doodles made by marker pens and etched into the wood by persons unknown littered the desk beneath his hands, but he didn’t recognise the scrawled names or initials.

He didn’t know this place.

Belatedly, Chris noticed his cheek was damp with drool. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer with a lazy, self-conscious movement 

_Man_ , his head hurt. It wasn’t a migraine exactly, but an overwhelming heaviness that wanted him to rest his head and close his eyes again. Glancing up at the ceiling, he winced. It was too bright; the artificial strip lights harsher than the ones at school. The windows to his left caught their glare, reflecting back at him.

_Wait a minute…_

It was dark outside. Why was it dark outside?

Chris pulled back his sleeve, searching for his watch, but it was gone. In its place was a metal bracelet wrapped snugly around his wrist. It had a digital display, but he couldn’t figure out what it meant. Squinting at the red digits, he frowned.

_Forty-two?_

The two little numbers blinked back at him, but what the hell did they mean? None of it made any sense.

Obeying the ache throbbing at his temples, Chris gave in and closed his eyes. Resting his elbows on the desk, he massaged the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses as he tried to make sense of it all.

_What the hell happened?_

For a moment, he was at a loss. Then, gradually, it started to come back to him. He remembered being on a bustling coach, surrounded by his friends and peers. Everything had seemed normal enough - the usual undercurrent of chatter and gossip punctuated by yells from one row of seats to another. His fellow students were busy wrapped up in conversation, peering up at their phones as they posed for selfies, or losing themselves to their own thoughts, made solitary by headphones. It was normal. Run-of-the-mill. Standard.

But why had they been on the coach?

_Think._

...A field trip? Some kind of final outing to celebrate the end of their Senior year? That certainly _felt_ right. But if that was true, where the hell were they headed?

A groan to his right caught Chris’ attention when the boy slumped over the neighbouring desk finally lifted his head. Chris recognised him - Lucas; a nice enough guy from his class. The redhead blinked a few times and rubbed a limp hand across his face before meeting Chris’ gaze; eyes blurry with incomprehension. He looked as lost and bewildered as Chris felt.

It was then that Chris saw it: the silver collar around his classmate’s neck, winking in the light. Eyes widening with recognition, the first stab of panic made itself known, cutting through the confused fog and affording him a little clarity. On instinct, Chris clutched at his own throat. 

His fingers met cold metal.

_No..._

At first he didn’t believe it. Flat out refused to. But when the door opened to a small procession of armed guards, it was difficult to kid himself anymore. Their heavy footfalls cut through the quiet murmurs as they lined up against the far wall, standing to attention with quiet obedience.

The sound of lone footsteps echoed along the corridor outside, preceding the entrance of a single man who differed from the rest. Unlike the others, the man was unarmed and dressed in civilian clothes - a smart, relatively expensive-looking suit and waistcoat, finished with a burgundy necktie and shoes; polished to an impressive shine.

His presence prompted fresh murmurs, but the man didn’t seem to care. Without a word, he walked to the front of the class and stood beside the only unoccupied desk, larger than the rest. He looked out over the rows of boys with patient expectation and seemed not to mind when they failed to quieten. Finally, with a glance at the guards, he nodded. With a nod in return, one of the guards took a handgun from the holster at his hip and pointed it at the ceiling.

It happened in a split-second - too fast for Chris to shield his ears in time. The gunshot cut through their confused chatter, jolting slouched postures with shock as dust and debris rained down from the cracked ceiling tiles and left stunned silence in its wake.

But the man didn’t jump. He didn’t even flinch. Instead, the slightest of smiles graced his lips as he calmly brushed his shoulder clear of dust and cleared his throat.

“Good morning, class.” 

Transfixed, all Chris could do was stare. But behind the silence, his mind formed confused, troubled thoughts. He… knew this man? There was something about the stranger’s face that struck him as familiar - his receding hairline, his gait, the expression he wore - but now that he'd spoken, Chris was almost certain of it. Yet, he still couldn't quite place him.

When no reply came from his charges, the man continued. “Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself.” He casually picked up a piece of chalk from the desk and turned to the blackboard, writing his name in large cursive. Turning to face them once more, the man noticed the flicker of recognition as some of the boys gazed back at him. He smiled that same, slight smile. “ _Ah_. I see some of you remember me. Very good. That should save us some time.”

Satisfied, he placed the chalk on the desk beside him.

“For those of you who don’t, I am Doctor Alan Hill,” he said, gesturing to the board. “You may not remember me, but I remember you _very_ well.”

It was the last clue Chris needed, prompting memories to return. He remembered seeing the doctor’s name in faded typeface upon an office door - a place Chris had rarely visited but passed by countless times at school between classes. He could picture the doctor from school assemblies, standing up there on the stage with the rest of the faculty. Hill had been their school counsellor, once upon a time, but he’d left the year before without fanfare for reasons Chris couldn’t recall. Regardless, Chris knew him now, but it seemed so absurd that he still couldn’t quite believe it. Judging by the stunned silence neither could anyone else.

“Now, some of you might be wondering where you are. Why you're here.” Hill’s smile widened, just a touch. “It’s very simple. Your class has been chosen to participate in the Millennium Education Reform Act. Or, as some of you may know it, The Program.” 

And there it was - confirmation of all his troubling thoughts and fears. Chris blinked; still not entirely convinced he was awake, hoping against hope that it was all a sick prank. But it wasn’t. He’d known it as soon as he’d felt the collar around his throat, but now there was no denying it. They were in the fucking _Program._

The more Chris thought about it, the more obvious it was. He should have known - what kind of field trip was fucking mandatory? He recalled the way the teachers had looked at them; the vague sense of something being amiss when they’d boarded the coach. But the students had been too wrapped up in their own stupid little worlds to notice till it was too late.

The logo flashed bright and vivid in his mind - that awful, blood red font that filled the TV screen, preceding the nation’s highest-rated show. The Program had been on the air for years, met with quiet outrage at first. But time had a funny way of changing things. Now it was the norm, a part of the spring programming schedule that people actually looked forward to. Some sick fucks even made an event of it - inviting friends over to watch the latest instalment. Mass murder had become water cooler talk.

He remembered the winner from the year before. It was difficult not to remember; her face had been plastered across the front covers of every newspaper in all its blood-soaked glory; something wild and savage in her eyes. And then came the interviews, the aftermath. She’d looked so small and unassuming sitting there in the studio wearing fresh clothes, dwarfed by the high-backed chair while the interviewer reeled off his questions. So different from the untamed mess of a person they’d dragged out of the rubble onto the helicopter. But there was something behind her eyes - something broken - that had turned Chris’ stomach. He’d watched out of morbid curiosity before having to change the channel, too sickened by it all.

But there was no option to change the channel now. No switching it off and ignoring it this time.

The revelation rendered Chris silent, but not everyone was quite so passive or accepting of the new state of affairs. Chair legs scraped along the floor as some of the boys got to their feet, raised voices filling the room.

Hill’s features hardened in the face of their fearful anger, but there was no concern there, just mild annoyance. “Sit down.”

His order went unheeded, doing nothing to stop the tirade.

“Sit down,” he repeated, calmly. But his voice was lost in the clamour.

With grim acceptance, Hill glanced at the guards once more. With a nod in return, one of the men raised his gun and turned towards the students.

_Hohfuck!_

Desks were forced backwards and knocked over by panicked limbs; everyone eager to get away. Chris crouched down on instinct, hands clasped to his ears, but it did little to shield him from the sound of the shot, nor the agonised scream that followed.

No debris this time. No warning. Someone was on the floor between the desks, all alone as his classmates scattered; clinging to the edges of the room. Chris saw the injured boy through the legs of his peers and the upturned furniture. It was Ryan - another guy he knew. He was quiet and funny and--

And bleeding.

Ryan was on his side, clutching his leg while he moaned, eyes wide with disbelief. Blood stained the leg of his pants, the floor, his hands. “Ohfuckohmygodohgodoh _fuck_!”

Hill looked down at the wounded boy, devoid of sympathy. Eventually, he lifted his gaze. “Sit. Down,” he repeated, as calmly as before.

Nobody moved at first; too scared to even obey. Slowly, the students began to reassemble the classroom, pushing desks back in place, though it wasn’t quite as orderly as before. Chris watched as two boys helped Ryan gingerly to his feet, every movement punctuated by weak, pained moans.

Hill watched Ryan’s progression back to his seat, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, a small hitch in his nonplussed expression. 

“Oh dear,” he murmured softly to himself, tutting at Ryan’s feeble attempts to hold himself up in his seat. “Looks like someone might be at a bit of a... _disadvantage_. And we haven’t even started yet.” 

Back in his seat, Chris realised his hands were trembling. He held one hand with the other, willing it to stop. But it wouldn’t.

“Yes… The Program.” Hill continued, picking up where he’d left off. “Civic duty, boys. A noble calling, truly.”

Panicked murmurs threatened to interrupt him again. But, with a raised hand and the threat of violence hanging heavy in the air, the class simmered down to uneasy whispers, much to Hill’s obvious satisfaction. Once everyone was back in their seats, he spoke again.

“So, before we begin, it is _my_ duty to outline what is going to happen. A few ground rules.” He smirked. “A spot of housekeeping, if you will.”

Turning to the board, Hill pulled down a plain white screen before retrieving a small stack of papers from his desk. Looking past the class to the back of the room, he gave another nod. A moment later, a large rectangle of light illuminated the screen.

Glancing over his shoulder, Chris caught sight of an ancient-looking carousel projector with yet another guard beside it. When had the guard even entered the room? Had he been there the whole time, watching them sleep? The thought only added to Chris' unease.

“Lights.”

The classroom was thrown into darkness.

With a clicker and the stack of papers in hand, Hill sidestepped, affording the class a better view of his presentation. With a press of his thumb, the carousel turned with a loud mechanical click. A dense block of text appeared on the plain white screen; too small to read from afar.

“Yes, boys. The good old MERA, as outlined here.” He glanced at the board, proceeding in a bored, detached tone. “As per article four-seven-two of the Millennial Reform Act, a class of students shall be selected each academic year to participate in the annual Battle Royale in accordance with the MERA. Said group of students - hereafter referred to as ‘participants’ - shall engage in lethal combat for a duration of up to but not exceeding seventy-two hours, or until a winner is determined. If there is no clear winner at the end of the allotted time, all remaining participants shall be terminated.”

Hill paused, leaving enough time for every single word to sink in.

Ryan was bleeding. Chris saw him despite the darkness shrouding the room; lit by the ghostly glow of the projector as he clutched his wounded leg beneath the desk.

“Participants - that's you, remember - shall be provided with basic food rations, a flashlight, a compass, a map of the combat arena and a randomly selected weapon.” Hill looked up from the stapled document with a patronising smile. “My, that's very generous, isn't it?”

Another click and the text was replaced by an image of a green, oval-shaped landmass, broken up by an orderly grid. With a smirk, the doctor continued.

“Participants shall restrict their activities to the designated venue chosen for the Battle Royale, hereafter referred to as ‘the combat arena’. Failure to remain within the combat arena will result in the termination of non-compliant participants.”

A wry smile graced Hill’s lips, lost in the dark. “As you can see, this year's playground-- excuse me, ‘ _combat arena_ ’, is an island. Ten miles long and four miles wide. An island surrounded by gunboats and patrolled by helicopters, in answer to your questions.”

Blood pooled at Ryan's feet, dripping from his pant leg onto the floor beneath his chair.

Hill looked down at his notes again. “Said combat arena shall be broken up into zones. Zones shall be designated active danger zones over the course of the seventy-two hour period. Any participant entering or remaining within a designated danger zone shall be terminated. Zone statuses are subject to change at the discretion of the director of BR operations.” Hill paused, his smirk growing into a fully fledged grin. “That's me, by the way.”

Despite the importance of Hill’s words, Chris couldn’t take his eyes off the injured boy. Sweat clung to Ryan’s brow as he fought back the urge to cry out in pain. But Hill seemed not to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t care.

“Changes in zone status shall be announced at intervals every six hours, along with acknowledgement of confirmed fatalities occurring within the preceding six hour time period.” He looked out at the class. “Is everybody following so far?”

Too overwhelmed to speak, all Chris could manage was a silent nod.

“Very well.” Paper rustled as Hill turned the page. “Ah, here we are. Participants shall be monitored at all times.”

Lowering the papers, Hill pressed the clicker. The map vanished, replaced by an annotated image of the same kind of collar strung at their throats and the metal bracelet wrapped around their wrists.

“It gets a bit wordy from here, so allow me to go off script for a moment. As you may have noticed, you are all the proud owners of the B-ninety-two collar and the equally fashionable W-zero-two wrist monitor. This year's must-have accessories, I'm sure you'll agree.”

Chris' stomach turned. Hill was loving this, there was no mistaking it. He swallowed, feeling constricted by the weight around his neck. It was a perfect fit, but it seemed to tighten like a noose with each smug word.

“Any attempt to tamper with, remove or otherwise interfere with the operation of said equipment shall result in termination.”

Termination. So clinical. Such a polite way of describing it. All of the horror broken up by neatly-spaced commercial breaks and government approved messages. So clean.

“Now, the colla--”

“You can't do this!”

Hill stopped, caught off guard for once by the scraping of a chair as someone got to their feet - a black silhouette against the light of the projection. Heads turned in the dark, seeking out the source of the interruption.

“There will be a time for questions, but this is not it. Sit down.” Hill drawled, thoroughly unimpressed.

“You c-can’t fucking do this!”

“Lights.” Hill muttered through a resigned sigh.

Chris squinted as the harsh lights flickered on. A student several rows in front to his left - a brunette called Max - was on his feet. Chris saw his hands clench into trembling fists.

“I said, sit--”

But Max didn't sit down.

“W-what makes you think you can get away with-- You can't... My _father_ \--”

Chris remained silent like his peers, but his heart was thudding hard in his chest; so hard he was certain they could all hear it.

_Sit down. Just fucking sit down…_

The guards were restless - itchy trigger fingers poised - but it seemed that Hill had other ideas. With a dismissive wave, he cut through Max's stuttering protest. “Ah, I see we have a volunteer!”

“Why are you all just sitting there!? Why aren't-- why?” Max spluttered, turning to his classmates. His eyes were wide, his voice filled with raw fear. “He c-c-can’t keep us here, we have to _do something_! We've gotta ge--”

Hill casually raised his hand and pointed the clicker at the desperate boy.

A single bleep cut through Max's frantic entreaty, followed a few seconds later by another, then another. A small red light on the brunette's collar blinked on and off with ominous regularity in time with each unwelcome sound. Eyes widening to manic proportions, Max clung to his throat.

Hill’s tone was calm by comparison. Bored, almost. “I _was_ going to explain how this equipment works, but perhaps a demonstration would be more effective.”

_Oh God…_

The class realised what was happening as one, and the boys in the desks surrounding Max backed away, abandoning their seats as he stared at them; eyes alight with unbridled terror. He went to them for help - help they couldn’t give - but there was no room for sympathy anymore; only the desperate, selfish desire to survive. Despite his pleas, he was pushed and shoved away. And all the while, the steady blips of the collar counting down cut through their raised voices, seeming deafeningly loud.

Chris found himself forced backwards, pressed against the window, elbow to elbow with other terrified classmates, all scrambling to get away.

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…!_

The relentless beeping of the collar quickened, the gaps between each pulse growing shorter until it became one singular, high-pitched whine.

Max’s face contorted with a fear Chris hadn’t even known existed until then.

“PLEASE!!! Ple--”

Chris didn’t know what he’d expected, but nothing prepared him for the violent jolt as Max’s head snapped backward, or the arcs of blood that misted the air for one bright, terrible moment. But most of all, he hadn’t been prepared for that _sound_ \- the snap of cartilage and the burble of a scream cut short, nor the thud that followed as the boy toppled to the ground.

Everything was a blur. Guns were raised. There were so many moving bodies all jostling to escape. But there was no escape. Fear, panic; it was all around him, inside him, loud in his ears and alive in his heart. 

But Hill was unafraid. He was calm, almost serene. Despite the chaos, Chris didn't miss the hint of malicious amusement lurking in the older man's eyes.

“Settle down.”

Gradually they calmed, if only on the surface. Nobody returned to their seats this time, not that many chairs were left standing. Instead they remained on the outskirts of the room, forced back against the walls by fear. The usual bravado some of Chris' peers displayed on a daily basis - back in class, back in school corridors and out on the playing field so many miles away - had been stripped away with that one, terrible act.

In the fresh silence, Hill looked down at his notes and wrinkled his nose. Somewhere in the commotion, he’d gotten too close to the action, and a spattering of blood marred the papers in his hand. He didn’t seem disgusted by it though; just mildly irritated, as if noticing smudged ink or an errant coffee stain.

Though the terrible whine had stopped with Max’s dramatic end, another loud beep cut through the quiet, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Chris’ stomach lurched at the sound and he instinctively gripped his own throat. But it wasn’t a collar this time. He saw his classmates gradually figuring it out, one by one, as they pulled back their sleeves.

No, not the collar. The bracelet. Chris edged back his cuff.

_Forty-one._

Was that what they were reduced to, now? A number?

He pictured the scoreboard on his TV screen, the one the pundits referred to while they picked through the grisly events of the day and compared stats; so matter-of-fact and detached from it all. Was that how his family would find out if he died? A summary of his entire being, his whole self, broken down into a digit or two?

“Contrary to what your classmate believed, I _can_ do this. Be under no illusions: you _are_ participating. You will all go out there and you will fight and die.” Hill’s tone darkened as he gestured to the corpse. “This, children, is your fate.”

Max’s body was a lone shape on the floor, abandoned between the smears of bloody footprints and upturned chairs. Face up, his neck was a mess of glistening red - burst open like an overripe watermelon; his windpipe a bloody pulp across his face and chest. Vacant eyes, still wide with terror, stared up at the ceiling; glassy and unseeing. 

And Chris couldn't stop looking at him, no matter how much he wanted to. He heard someone retching and suppressed the urge to follow suit.

The scoreboard came to him again in a horrible vision; Max’s class photo in greyscale, followed by three simple letters - DNP. Did not participate. Chris felt his stomach churn and twist, clenching as Hill continued his briefing unabated.

“But for one of you, this is not a death sentence. This is your chance to shine. A long overdue lesson in Darwinism. Some kids don’t just survive here. They _thrive_.” Hill’s eyes lit up. “Today is the day you must ask yourself: What am I capable of?”

Hill clapped his hands together with a slight smile.

“So, let us recap. Insubordination will result in termination. Tampering with the equipment will result in termination. Failing to comply with any of the rules will result in… anyone?”

A tentative voice answered him. “T-termination…?”

The smirk was back. “Good man. Yes.”

Hill inspected his fingernails, looking up as something occurred to him.

“Oh, for the record, your parents are well aware of your participation. Some reacted better to the news than others, but… _well_.” He finished the thought with a dismissive shrug. “But listen to me going on and on. We can't keep the ladies waiting, can we?”

Chris’ breath caught in his throat. He'd been so consumed by his own fears that he hadn't even thought about the other half of the class.

_The girls._

Nobody reacted at first, heightened emotions rendering them weak and mute. That was, until a lone hand emerged hesitantly from the crowd. Chris followed the hand down to its owner.

Just when Chris thought he couldn’t be more afraid, the world proved him wrong.

_Put your hand down, dude! Put your fucking hand DOWN!_

“Ah. Now, this,” Hill gestured to hand, “is better. A little bit of order. A little _respect_.” He turned his attention to the student. “Yes, Joshua?”

Chris winced as thick, unpleasant nausea rose up in his throat. He didn’t like the overly familiar way Hill said his best friend’s name; spoken in that smug, mocking tone. He watched Josh from afar, and the look Josh wore only added to the sick feeling in his stomach.

“...Where are the girls?” Josh asked timidly, the question laced with barely suppressed anxiety.

“Finally, a sensible question.”

The sound of trundling wheels and distant footfalls grew louder, right on cue. Two guards entered, wheeling an antiquated TV set between them, leaving neat tracks of blood in its wake. They stopped beside Hill and busied themselves setting up the equipment before leaving without a word.

Hill picked up a remote from his desk with a flourish, taking obvious delight in the boys’ tension. With the press of a button, the old TV crackled to life, initial static clearing to reveal the grainy interior of a different building. It was in a similar state of neglect to the classroom: parts of the wall crumbling, scattered bits of plaster littering the ground. The room was large, round--imposing. Rotting wooden beams supported stacked flats that followed the curvature of the space, giving it the appearance of an amphitheater.

It took him a moment to notice, but Chris could make out tiny figures spaced along the descending tiers, all intently focused on a small TV resting atop a metal table in the center of the room. There was movement on the first platform, one of the figures drawing their knees to their chest. Chris could just barely make out the sway of long, auburn hair-- _Ashley_. 

The longer Chris looked, the more familiar the group became. Blonde hair, a messy bun--it had to be Sam who reached out to rub Ashley’s back with a free hand, never taking her gaze off the TV. Another pair sat with them, black bob and dark wavy locks like spilt ink on the screen. 

Beth… Hannah? 

The people on the monitor, it had to be them. All the missing girls from the class.

In the wake of the revelation, Josh was quiet. They all were.

“The ladies are but a few short miles away. Watching you watching them watching you, and so it goes on. They were better behaved during their briefing, of course. But boys will be boys, eh?”

_Keep quiet, J. Please just shut your mouth and don’t say anything..._

Thankfully, Chris’ fear was unfounded. Josh didn’t speak again, too taken aback to give voice to the thoughts and fears lurking behind his eyes; his gaze never wavering from the TV until finally, with a click, the screen went dark.

“Any more questions?”

Chris had questions. Hundreds and thousands of questions all vying for his attention. But he didn’t speak. Nobody did. They’d been broken down, just like Hill wanted.

“In that case, we’d best begin.” Satisfied, Hill turned the page. “When your name is called, you will proceed from this room, collect your bag from the corridor and… well, the rest is up to you. Run. Hide. Fight. The choice is yours.”

He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat. “Boy number one: Jason Reyes.”

A whimper came from Chris’ right and all eyes turned toward the boy in question. Jason’s jaw was slackened by incomprehension, his mouth making silent shapes, but no words came. Finally, he stepped forward, but he was unsteady on his feet. Keeping clear of Max’s body, he slowly crossed the room. When he finally reached Hill, he stopped, dazed.

“Off you go.” Hill gave him an encouraging nod.

With a final glance over his shoulder at the rest of the boys, Jason left, his exit marked by the sound of quickening footfalls that faded to silence.

“Boy number two.” Hill glanced down at his notes and smirked. “Ah, the ever popular Michael Munroe. Come on down!”

There was no whimper this time, merely shuffling as the students moved aside and another familiar face emerged from the crowd.

Somewhere in the chaos, Mike’s uniform had become dishevelled - a far cry from the class president’s usual, effortless appearance. His tie was askew above the small smattering of blood flecks staining his shirt, his hair slightly mussed up from the events of the past few minutes. Where Jason looked fearful and reluctant, Mike simply seemed resigned. His features hardened when he met Hill’s eye, but there was something lacking in his usual confident demeanour.

Straightening his blazer, Mike walked away from the group, intending to bypass Hill completely. But the doctor’s voice stilled his feet.

“Don't forget, big smiles, children. You're TV stars, now.”

With a grimace, Mike left the room.

“Boy number three…”

Chris’ gaze hung on the empty doorway.

They weren’t numbers, no matter what the counter said. They were faces Chris had seen day in day out for years. People he spoke to, with thoughts and feelings. He knew them, all too well.

But that didn’t matter anymore.

All he could do was stand in silence and wait for Hill to call his name. 

\---

One foot forward…

And the other…

Left step…

Right step…

Her chest felt tight, legs wobbling as she forced herself onward into the unyielding night. 

Ashley tried to breathe, willed herself to be brave, but it was all moot: every pace forward brought a new bout of crying. Tears tracked down her ruddy face, making her eyes sting and head buzz with the beginnings of a migraine. She wanted so badly to be calm, to snuff out the terror seeping its way into her very bones. But every breath of stale, hot air faltered into a choked sob and the tears would start anew.

Breathe.

_Breathe._

They could probably hear her crying, the others. She could feel eyes following her from the dusty windows of the crumbling buildings, the old glass catching the faintest hint of light from the distant clinic. Eyes sizing her up, plotting how best to corner her, tear her apart…

This isn’t happening, _this isn’t happening._

They were supposed to wait for her.

She could still feel Sam’s phantom whisper of air dusting across the shell of her ear, just before she stood up to accept to her duffle bag.

_“I’ll wait for you outside. Come find me.”_

Ashley barely had time to process the words before the blonde was moving, mouthing soft words to Hannah. Then she was up, skirting the risers, hoisting the offered pack onto her back, and bolting out the entrance.

One by one, the other girls were called, afraid to ignore their names or speak out. They had all seen what happened to Max; no one needed a second demonstration.

All the people Ashley had come to rely on, people she knew, filtered out of the clinic: friends from the school’s library club, the Washington twins – one after another. That preppy bitch, Emily, and her little entourage. 

And then, it was just her.

By the time she was given her bag and was sent on her way, the area surrounding the clinic had been long since deserted. A putrid smell lingered by the entrance: someone had thrown up, the sharp acidic odor nearly masking the haze of a recently discharged firearm. The smell, the silence, knowing the horrors the boys had endured… it had been too much. Ashley had collapsed against the moss-covered walls of the clinic, sobbing until there wasn’t a single tear left in her body.

While not particularly productive, her breakdown had given her an opportunity to rifle through the tactical bag and claim her weapon...if you could even call it that. So now, here she was: forcing herself onward into the abandoned maze of homes and storefronts, holding a worn pair of rusty sewing scissors in front of her. It was all Ashley could do to defend herself against the rest of her peers.

Her journey had been nerve-wracking, but uneventful. That was, up until she heard a scrape on the road, something concealed in the shadows behind her. Ashley stopped, straining her ears for any other noises, willing her frightened breaths into silence. She didn’t dare pull out her flashlight and give away her position – maybe it was just a small animal, foraging. Nothing to worry about.

Then she heard the same sound a second time, a third and a fourth. It was too regular, too big - those were definitely footsteps. Ashley forced down a sob, scissors brandished in front of her, the tarnished blades wobbling in her unsteady grip.

This wasn’t _fair_.

She was a good person, a good student. Her parents had scraped together everything they had to send her to this _prestigious_ school: she had been recognized by the faculty, her writing talents admired by the staff…all for nothing. Now, some rich little scumbag was coming to hunt her down in the dark and kill her. Resentment bloomed fresh and painful in her heart. 

_I don’t deserve this!_

A crunch of gravel was Ashley’s only warning and suddenly she was blind, almost dropping her scissors in a frantic motion to shield her eyes. She was babbling, words and sounds tumbling out of her mouth in a jumbled rush, no, no, _please no—_

“Ashley? Oh god, hold on, sorry, sorry—“

The beam from the flashlight swung to the ground, illuminating a pair of the most well-loved Nike’s Ashley had ever seen. She knew those shoes. _She knew that voice._

“Sam!”

Ashley threw out her hands, letting her joke of a weapon fall from her grip so she could clutch at her friend’s blazer, pulling her closer. Convincing herself that Sam was real.  
“Oh my god, _oh my god_ , Sam—“

Arms enveloped Ashley in a quick squeeze before releasing her, a firm hand shifting to her elbow.

“Ash, I know you’re scared, but we have to move. We have to go, _now_.” As she said it, Sam tugged insistently at her arm, coaxing her forward.

Ashley followed in a daze, the switch between looming death and salvation nearly overwhelming. But Sam was going too fast.

“Wait, Sam, I need—“

“Ashley, _we need to go_.”

Fumbling for words, Ashley pointed back to the spot they had stood in only seconds before, resisting Sam’s lead. “I dropped them!”

Even though she could barely see Sam’s face in the dark, there was no mistaking the confusion in the turn of her head, pausing in her march onward.

“Scissors,” Ashley clarified. “That’s what I got in my bag. It’s all I have.” She tugged against Sam’s grip again. “I _need_ them.”

Sam breathed out a long sigh, but released Ashley. “Fine, grab them. But Han and Beth are waiting for us. We need to get to them before anyone else gets though here, got it?”  
Nodding vigorously, an automatic response unnoticeable in the dark, Ashley turned on her heel and swooped down. It started as a blind shuffling, but thanks to the aid of Sam’s light, Ashley spotted the faded red tape looped around the handles of her scissors.

Then, they ran.

Their steps kicked up puffs of dust from the unused roads, swirling and disappearing into the night air. In the bouncing beam of Sam’s flashlight, Ashley could see into the building ahead of them, the Washington twins framed by the entrance. Hannah looked as terrified as Ashley felt, fingers clutching at the wooden doorway while Beth vigorously waved them onward, as if her twirling hands could move them faster. It almost felt like a dream… a nightmare.

And yet, for the first time since everything went to hell, Ashley felt safe. In her deepest moments of fright, when she had given up all hope, Sam had appeared. Ever the reliable guardian: Sam could figure something out, could protect them. Sprinting into the old house, Hannah’s hands guiding her to cover, Ashley felt her heart lift.

They could actually figure a way out of this mess.

They could make it out of here alive. 

\---

Fuckin’ _jackpot_.

Mike hoisted the shotgun out of his pack, handling it with a muted sort of reverence.  
“This is it, huh?” he mumbled, reaching back into the bag to check for shells. “They really want us to do this…” 

When Mike first stepped outside the decrepit school, he wasn’t sure what to expect. He was actually surprised there weren’t more guards, or some kind of security system set up around the building. Everything was just so…open. The cracked asphalt beneath his feet continued into the darkness, unimpeded by fences, barricades…

It was almost like he was being set up.

That is, he _would’ve_ thought that, if it weren’t for the collar fit snugly around his neck. There was no need for their captors to contain them when they could blow his head off with the push of a button, he figured. 

Rather than dashing off into the unknown, Mike tried to approach the situation logically. He had crept along the edge of the building, trying to put some distance between him and his potential attackers. From what he could tell, more buildings loomed in the inky space just beyond the boundaries of the schoolyard: a neighborhood? Did people still live here?

Mike could vaguely recall Hill saying something about a flashlight in his pack – the faster he could plot a course away from his classmates, the better. A quick rummage through his bag not only produced the flashlight in question, but some serious firepower as well.

Mike could remember enough of the hunting trips with his old man to feel pretty confident with what he’d been given. Not many people would want to mess with him if they saw this baby – and maybe he wouldn’t have to ki— _take down_ any of his friends. A win-win situation.  
Tucking the shotgun into his belt, Mike made to grab for his flashlight…

…and immediately thought better of it. He could hear shouting from the school’s front entrance and the last thing he needed was to give away his location. He would just have to go in blind. 

But Christ, it was dark outside.

Mike took a second to steady himself, trying to adjust to the surrounding unknown. In comparison to the sounds of the scuffle out front, the space around him was quiet to the point where it was unsettling: every shadow was a potential threat. Though he had long since grown out of his fleeting boughs of terror brought on by the nighttime hallways of his childhood home, Michael could feel the first twinges of anxiety making their way down his spine.

He knew he wasn’t alone out here anymore.

Hand braced against the school’s crumbling concrete walls, Mike started away from the building, trying to see into the town just outside of his field of vision. Should he try to move further in? Had _Jason_ already moved on in the same direction? The thought gave Mike some pause. The two of them had never been close friends, but they got along alright in big group settings. Maybe there was potential for an ally now, and Mike could figure out the complicated stuff later. Cupping his hand around his mouth, Mike faced the first row of houses.

“Pssst, hey!” Mike kept his voice low, but insistent. “Jason! You there, man…?

A sound somewhere between the houses ahead of him put Mike on instant alert. The muggy heat left over from the day had settled into a thick silence: no rustling leaves, no traces of animals. Any noises he heard would have to come from his classmates. But that was the real problem, wasn’t it? 

He and Jason had hung out every so often at parties, done a few late-night booze runs, had their good times. It’s not as if they didn’t get along - Mike liked to think he was a pretty good judge of character, and by his standards, Jason seems like a reasonable guy. Maybe they could work something out together, come up with a game-plan—

Something fast tore through the air by Mike’s face, impacting the wall behind him with a solid crunch. He yelped, leaping backwards, head whipping back and forth to locate the source of movement. His attention settled on something long and sleek sticking out from the wall of the school, dimly illuminated by the floodlight around the corner. Was that—?

Another arrow landed in the dirt by his feet with a twang, kicking up the dusty earth.

“What the fuck, man, _what the fuck_??” Mike bellowed, scrambling away as he reached for the shotgun bouncing on his hip. Weapon in hand, he took off running, caution thrown to the wind in favor of finding cover. He was sure the shots had come from the direction of the houses, the same direction he was sprinting in, but he could barely see anything in front of his face. Chest heaving, Mike bolted across the lawn of the house closest to the schoolyard, dead grass crunching and twisting beneath his feet. Running, ducking, Mike rounded the corner of the yard and came face-to-face with Jason Reyes.

Mike felt his heart clench in his chest, but judging from the look of panicked shock his classmate wore, Jason hadn’t expected him to come this way either. With a new bolt only half-loaded into his crossbow and jaw still slack, Jason numbly pointed his weapon at Mike’s chest.

Jason Reyes, kicked off the basketball team for calling the coach a dickhead, was going to shoot him.

Mike didn’t have time to think, only time to react. Weight of the shotgun in his hands, Mike squeezed the trigger, felt the stock kick back into his shoulder. Everything was suddenly loud, _too_ loud.

The sound took him back to a time when he was smaller, younger, eager to impress. He stood just like this, frozen, with the gunmetal and wooden stock surprisingly warm in his hands. He stared ahead numbly as big hands clapped him on the shoulder, his dad’s excited words sounding distant: muted. But Mike could only focus on the deer, splayed across the forest floor, legs twisted unnaturally; the running red of its exposed gut staining the grass beneath it in ugly, dark shapes.

Mike blinked rapidly, trying to clear the bright spots dancing behind his eyelids. It felt as though the world around him had slowed to a grinding halt, air catching in his lungs. Eventually, the ringing in his ears stopped.

Jason Reyes, who had helped build the school’s musical sets for the past two years, lay unmoving on the ground.

Bile churned in Mike’s gut and he stumbled away from the mess of his classmate’s body. He retched, his stomach protesting the stench of blood – but he swallowed it down, just like he had been taught.

_“It was necessary; don’t you see?” his dad had murmured, rubbing soothing circles across his back. “That buck didn’t die for_ nothing. _”_

A loud blip startled Mike from his thoughts, a familiar, disturbing sound. Sure enough, when he pulled back the sleeve of his uniform blazer, the counter at his wrist had fallen again: forty remaining contestants. 

It was him. He was the first one to murder one of his classmates, gun someone down in cold blood—

_No._

No...that was wrong. He was protecting himself. Jason shot at him first, was trying to kill _him_ ; it had to be done. Mike collected himself, rationalizing. Hill had made it abundantly clear how this game was played and there was only one way to win; if it came down to kill or be killed, he just had to make sure he was the last man standing when the dust settled. 

Mike took a moment to collect himself: righting his blazer, adjusting his tie. Then, shotgun in hand, he moved on into the neighborhood, leaving Jason, and his guilt, behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblrs:  
> @Dolphinsjukebox & @MessofCurls-creative


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